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SIX STORIES 



by 

GEORGE 
HARRISON 
PHELP S 



PRIVATELY PRINTED 

I Q I 6 



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Copyright 1916 by 
George Harrison Phelps 



/ 

JAN -6 1917 

©CI.A448828 



::::> THIS EDITION OF SIX STORIES IS 

LIMITED TO ONE HUNDRED AND 

EIGHTY-EIGHT COPIES IN BOARDS 

AND TWELVE COPIES IN OOZED 

SHEEP. THIS COPY IS 

NUMBER 



:Mi 



Printed by 

Joseph Mack Printing House, Inc. 

Detroit 




George Harrison Phelps 



To My Friends 



ON THE PAGES THAT FOLLOW ARE A 
FEW MESSAGES I HAVE WRITTEN DUR- 
ING MOMENTS DEVOTED TO QUIET 
REFLECTION — URGING MYSELF AND 
OTHERS INTO THE MOOD OF WORKING 
FOR BETTER THINGS INSTEAD OF 
WISHING FOR THEM. 

BETWEEN THE LINES OF THE FINEST 
OF THESE LITTLE STORIES IS MY 
NEW YEAR'S MESSAGE TO YOU. 





'you are in the Roman Coliseum. It is 
-^ the afternoon of the great chariot race. 
The amphitheatre is packed with people. 
The women are gorgeously arrayed in 
blue and crimson and gold. Patricians, 
poets, statesmen, philosophers, warriors 
— many in brilliant costumes — lend life 
and gayety to the shifting scene. The 
gigantic bowl is alive with light and 
color. The air is tense with excitement. 

The great day of the race is almost 
ended. The charioteers are nearing the 
last turn to finish in front of the royal 
stand. Everyone leans forward. There 
is no sound throughout the vast Coliseum 



save the rush of the flying horses, the 
thunder of the chariots, the cries of the 
charioteers. 

The speed is terrific. Ben Hur is 
driving in second place. They approach 
the last corner. The leaders pitch for- 
ward. Driver and chariot and horses all 
roll in front of Ben Hur. 

Like a flash he takes a double hold 
on the reins and fairly lifting the horses, 
drives them over the prostrate bodies in 
his path. 

As he swings into the stretch, Artimi- 
dora cries to him from the royal box: 
"Those arms — where did you get those 
arms?" He shouts in answer: "Ai the 
galley s oar! At the galley s oarf^ 

In the hold of a trireme, Ben Hur got 
those mighty arms that carried him to 
victory. For years he slaved at a great 
oar among the hundred other slaves — 
half naked and sweating — the lash at his 
back. 



"Do the thing and you shall have the 
power," said Emerson. After Ben Hur's 
years of herculean toil it was an easy task 
to lift the horses over the wrecked chariot 
and drive them to the front. 

All great things are accomplished 
easily — it is the years, the hours, the 
moments of preparation that count. 
Thomas Edison was not twenty minutes 
proving the value of the incandescent 
light — he spent half a lifetime seeking 
the best filament. Abraham Lincoln 
wrote the greatest speech ever made in 
the English language — the Gettysburg 
Address — on the back of an envelope, 
an hour before he delivered it — yet, the 
deep understanding, the rugged spirit, 
the infinite compassion, the whole life 
of Lincoln thrills in its every word. 

Work — constantly, patiently, every day — 
striving toward the highest and the best. 
The moments of supreme action will come 
to you as they have come to all men we call 



great. The way of success is the way of 
struggle. Strive for perfection in the 
little things you do, and when the great 
moment comes you will be ready. You 
get your strength in the sweat of your 
body — in the tumult of your mind — in 
the aspiration of your soul. 

To win the race you must first be a slave 
at the Galley s Oar. 




R^i^ 




T HAD known the man for several years. 
■'■ I had seen him climb to affluence and 
position and power in one of the great- 
est packing houses in the world. Steadily 
he had climbed, and slowly — never 
faltering. Then, one day he took a leap 
ahead that placed him at the very top 
of his business. As he departed from 
his birthland for London, to assume 
control of the European business for his 
firm, I marveled at the indefinable, in- 
visible power that must be hidden in his 
big frame. 

Often I wondered what it was inside 
this great, good-natured man that drove 
him on so steadily. 



One day I found out. Let me pass the 
story on to you. 

On a morning shortly after war was 
declared, the Chicago office of this pack- 
ing house was humming with repressed 
excitement. Word had been received 
from an European power that only a 
guarantee of immediate delivery was 
necessary for an almost fabulous order 
for beef — millions, many millions, it 
counted. Quick action was necessary — 
someone must be at this nation's war 
office at once! A list of available trans- 
ports must be had, and there was only 
one man who could handle the details 
that would win this gigantic contract. 
He was on his vacation, somewhere on 
the continent — no one knew exactly 
where. 

At lo o'clock in the morning a cable 
flashed from Chicago to London — 
"Where is Hall?" Definite advices must 
be in the hands of the minister of war 



before night. Representatives of other 
firms, equally well prepared, were already 
racing toward Paris. It all meant mil- 
lions. The hours dragged slowly for the 
officials in Chicago. They waited im- 
patiently — all thought abandoned save 
the message from across the sea. They 
knew that its contents would mean the 
loss or gain of the greatest single order 
of its kind ever placed. 

A few minutes past 3 o'clock — or just 
five hours after the inquiry had flashed 
to London — the answer came ; a message 
that today is inscribed in the records of 
this firm as evidence of the highest type 
of salesmanship and initiative. It was 
brief — from the war office, Paris : 

"I am on the job. Transports being 
loaded. Hall." 

This man had closed the deal ! He had 
heard that the French government must 
have beef and have it quickly. He stop- 
ped at nothing. Leaving his family in 



a little town near Luzerne he rushed 
on to Paris, gathering information as he 
went — lists of transports that could be 
commandeered; all the ammunition 
necessary to win this great battle of 
salesmanship. 

I marvel no longer at the man's suc- 
cess. Now I know the secret. 

He was on the job. 





yVTHEN I was in college there was a 
'^ man at Princeton named Eddie 
Hart. He was a real man. When I 
think of him I think of Kipling's Fuzzy 
Wuzzy, in which he says — "You're a 
poor benighted heathen, but a damned 
good fighting man." 

Of course, Hart was neither poor nor 
benighted. He was a stupendous suc- 
cess in college and he has since risen high 
in the business world. He has made good 
under conditions that would give the 
ordinary man arterio sclerosis. 

For three years he was captain of the 
Princeton football team, and every year 



he made brighter the name and fame of 
the Orange and Black. He was a born 
leader and he had the indomitable 
courage of a matador. During his 
third year, in a tough battle on a slushy 
field, he broke his neck and was carried 
out for dead. And he might have died 
then and there, or he might have lain 
flat on his back in a hospital for the 
remainder of his life. But he didn't. 
His fine come-back was due partly to 
luck, but mostly, I think, as I remember 
him, to his "damned good fighting spirit. 

After lying still for a few weeks he had 
a special harness made to hold his head 
from resting on his spine, and with this 
strapped to his great shoulders he 
startled the world by appearing again 
at the head of his team. 

He used to carry around in his pocket 
the school song of Eton. He said it was 
the spirit of this song that made him 
win. I believe it — and I believe that it 



holds a message for the man who would 
win at anything. Here's a part of it: 

The sand of the river is sodden red, 

Red with the wreck of a square that broke ; 
The gatlings jammed and the colonel dead 

And the regiment blind with dust and smoke. 
The river of Death has brimmed its banks, 

And England's far and Honor a name. 
But the voice of a school boy rallies the ranks, 

"Play upi Play up! and play the game!" 

When I think of Hart playing against 
Harvard and Yale and winning with a 
broken neck — every moment in danger 
of snapping the slender cord of life — I 
haven't much patience with the sales- 
man or dealer who has all his organs 
and faculties in perfect order and cry- 
ing for action, and yet sits and bemoans 
the fact that he has had a cancellation 
or two — that the weather is hot — that 
he can't get enough cars to fill his orders. 

It's nerve he needs — nerve to rustle 
out for two new sales for every one he's 
lost. 



That's why I'm telling the story of 
Eddie Hart. 

That's why I say: 

"Buck up! Buck up! and play the 
game!" 





TF YOU know it's true — if you know 
-^ you're right — don't be afraid to say, 
"By God, this v/ay it is!" Never mind 
the sneers and jibes. Make your own 
chart and hold your course. Right will 
always go ahead, and prove itself at last. 
Forget Custom and Tradition, for they 
are only barnacles on your ship of 
Success. They fix the limits of progress 
for the man who never dares to break 
the bonds. 

One night I sat chinning with the Big 
Boss and he told me the story of Old 
Mike McDonald. Perhaps you will 
find a bit of inspiration in it — anyway, 
here it is: 



Old McDonald was editor of a Western 
paper, one of that great race of pioneer 
literary supermen now fast disappearing 
from the earth. Mike was of the species 
that is kindly yet gruffly stern and his 
work was another term for law. 

One of his chief diversions was to make 
big blue rings around words his "cub" 
reporters wrote. Mike was a "bug" on 
spelling. Often he would lean over a 
reporter's shoulder and correct copy 
that was just begun. Some of the 
"cubs" who deemed it their special duty 
to keep Noah Webster's grave strewn 
with fresh flowers, occasionally uttered 
great and joyous shouts of triumph 
when, on consulting the big and tattered 
dictionary in the office corner, they found 
that Webster stood with them and not 
with Mike McDonald. Then, if coura- 
geous enough, they told Mike about it. 

But, strangely, such a discovery never 
made much difference with Mike. The 



word went into the paper as he had cor- 
rected it. Even the "bible of Webster" 
couldn't shake him. He felt that he 
was right — and he stuck. 

On such occasions the "cubs" sniffed 
the air and smiled scornful smiles behind 
his back. "Bullhead," they muttered. 
And they repeated it with added 
emphasis on discovering that Mike had 
not only ordered his version run in the 
paper but had put the same big blue 
mark on Old Noah himself. He had cor- 
rected the dictionary! 

One day Mike laid down his big blue 
pencil for the last time and crossed the 
river to where spelling doesn't matter 
much. His dictionary was kicked about 
the office for months. Nobody noticed 
it now. Finally it came to the attention 
of a new man on the staff — a man who 
recognized and appreciated courageous 
originality. He packed Mike's book in 
a box and sent it to the publisher. 



The next edition of the dictionary con- 
tained most of Mike's corrections. 

Have you the nerve to be a Mike 
McDonald? 








''*^'Y^^ff:^p-^^ 



'~pHE instinctive judgment of the pub- 
-*■ lie seldom errs. It will sense the 
little insincerities, the little discourtesies, 
the little exaggerations as quickly as the 
mother feels the approaching danger to 
her child. 

"If you would pass down the western 
slope of life unlonely, with friends to 
make your last days round and full, guard 
well the subtle influence of your person- 
ality on those you meet today," says 
Thoreau. 

As it is with life, so it is with business. 
The seemingly insignificant things are 
often the most important. Sometimes 



we may feel that a little white lie, a bit 
of idle gossip, a broken promise really 
does no lasting harm. But every thought 
we think, every deed we do, every 
promise we make, either strengthens or 
weakens the fabric of our business. Just 
as a tiny drop of aniline dye will color a 
whole hogshead of water, so will the 
carelessness of these little things color 
the opinion in which we are held by those 
with whom we deal. 

Out in Santa Rosa, the wonderful 
botanical gardens of Luther Burbank are 
carefully guarded, but one day the gate 
was left open and a little girl, peering 
through, could not resist the temptation 
to take a lily growing near the wall. 
There was only one blossom on the stalk 
— all the others had gone to seed. In 
her haste to pluck the flower she strip- 
ped the stalk of the ripened pods and 
the seeds fell in the sand and gravel. 
A short time afterwards as Mr. Bur- 



bank was walking through the garden 
he missed the lily. In dismay he realized 
that the work of years was wasted. With 
tears streaming down his cheeks he called 
to his sister and the two went back to 
hunt for the seeds in the trodden sand. 
There, on his hands and knees, the fa- 
mous Burbank searched patiently, hour 
after hour, until the tiny seeds — the 
almost invisible objects of his painful 
effort — had been recovered. 



To the little girl the flower was a minor 
thing — pretty, fit to be plucked. To 
Burbank it was a wonderful achieve- 
ment, based on endless hours of toil and 
experimentation. Her thoughtless de- 
light at thus finding a lily to wear, was 
to him a grave misfortune. Little wonder 
he wept. 

As easily as the child wrecked the 
creation to which Burbank had given 
years, so may a man wreck and despoil 



the principle of his business. A careless 
word, a little "knock," a bit of subter- 
fuge, and dry rot has started on its way. 

It's these little things under which 
foundations crumble. Watch them! 





"DE a neighbor — not a knocker. So 
■^ long as men come together in busi- 
ness, in the home, in the church — in 
fact, while humxan habitation covers the 
globe, the man devout in the Religion of 
Neighborliness, who touches with surest 
hand the greatest number of human 
hearts, will be a giant among his fellows. 

There is an old story on this point that 
I want to tell you — an old story of a 
Quaker and his quaint philosophy. 

He stood one day watering his horse at 
the village trough when a new neighbor 
paused with not over-pleasant greeting. 
"What manner of people live in this vil- 
lage?" the new-coming resident asked. 



"What manner of people didst thee 
live amongst before?" retorted the amic- 
able old Quaker, affectionately patting 
the neck of his horse. 

"The people in the town I came from," 
answered the stranger, "were mean. They 
werenarrow, they were forever suspicious, 
and quick to take unfair advantage." 

"Then," said the Quaker, "I am sorry, 
for thee will find the same manner of 
people here." 

And the newcomer found it as the old 
Quaker had told him. 

Again the Quaker chanced to be at the 
trough when another stranger came into 
the village. He, too, inquired about the 
temper of the populace, and to him as 
well the Quaker put the question, 
"What manner of people didst thee live 
amongst before?" 

A broad and cordial smile overspread 
the features of the stranger as he spoke. 



"Friend," he said, "there are none finer 
than the people I left behind. They 
were neighbors and I loved them. It was 
hard for me to leave — I loved them all, 
but I had to journey on." 

The face of the old Quaker beamed 
with welcome. "Be of good cheer, my 
neighbor," he said, "for thee will find the 
same fine people here." 

And again it was as the old Quaker 
said. 

"As he thinketh in his heart, so is he." 

It is an old proverb, fraught with 
meaning and with wisdom. It is not a 
vague platitude; neither is it a myth of 
sentiment. It is a fundamental law of 
life, as sure and true in its working as 
the law that gives the sun its heat. 

And so I say to you, fellow dealers and 
salesmen : 

Tell me a little about your town and 
your neighbors and I'll tell you a lot 
about you and your business. 



